


Conversations: Beneath the Words

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-09
Updated: 2011-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four related "221B" drabbles. <i>"He is going into my soul with calipers. He is entering my eyes as if they were a mineshaft; he is testing my spirit with a plumb line." --Annie Dillard, Encounters</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations: Beneath the Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sherlock_flashfiction  
> Thanks to Tehomet for Beta and Brit-picking!

### The Object of His Attention

John finished his examination of the body and sighed. Outwardly healthy, fit -- the man should be alive, in the prime of his life; instead he was lying twisted on the platform, staring sightlessly at nothing.

"Fell, obviously." As if on cue, they all looked up at the escalator descending into the Underground. "More likely pushed."

Sherlock nodded.

"Going by the bruise pattern on the back of his neck, and shoulder, here." John pointed out what Sherlock already knew; then listened to Sherlock expound on everything he'd missed.

"Right then." Lestrade motioned to the waiting constables. "Pack him up."

The men laid out the body bag, and John knelt down to close the man's eyes, his thoughts falling into a wordless, formless prayer. He glanced up at Sherlock, unsurprised to find the pale and calculating eyes fixed on him. John could almost see Sherlock's brain working, adding data, testing, rejecting, revising.

Sherlock smiled briefly, and stalked away without waiting to see if John followed.

"Gives me the creeps when he looks at _me_ like that." Donovan shuddered. "It's like he takes a scalpel to your soul."

 _Scalpel. Callipers, lens_. John thrilled to the shock of it, the moment when Sherlock's attention shifted from a case to him. Because it was amazing.

 _Eyes, fingertips, lips._ John hurried after Sherlock. Because it was _brilliant._

  


### Invader at the Breakfast Table 

John is spreading jam on toast when he looks up to find Sherlock watching him avidly. He bites into the toast -- a bit tough, a little dry, but it's all that's left; the rest of the loaf's in a tub under the sink, growing interesting mould -- and chews steadily, calmly returning Sherlock's gaze. He takes a sip of tea, and pushes away his plate -- it's cracked, but still whole, unlike those in the bin, shattered when Sherlock grew tired of shooting the wall -- and leans on his elbows, holding his cup between his hands. He closes his eyes, but at a theatrical, long-suffering sigh from across the table, he opens them again.

Sherlock is glaring at him. John stares back placidly.

"What?" Sherlock blurts out.

John sips, puts his cup down, and shrugs. He's learning to build up his walls, to guard his perimeter. He tugs at a corner of the carelessly refolded newspaper on the table between them, and scans the headlines. _Death Underground -- Was He Pushed?_

"Oh!" Sherlock leaps from his chair and stalks from the room. A moment later, John hears a spattering of jumpy, discordant notes from Sherlock's violin.

 _Safe._ His adversary thwarted, John smiles, and starts a mental shopping list. Better earplugs, bread, and two plates. No, one plate for him -- indestructible. Six for Sherlock. _Breakable._

  


### Balm

John came home from the clinic, dead beat, without even the energy to take off his jacket, or kick off his shoes, or open the takeaway Chinese he'd lugged home. He dropped the bag on the floor and fell into his chair. He glanced at the newspaper spread on the table. TUBE MURDERS: POLICE BAFFLED.

He rubbed his forehead, but the pain was everywhere; in his shoulder, his leg, the back of his neck, behind his eyes.

His left hand was shaking.

He'd had a _spectacularly_ bad day. It had been busy at the clinic -- an outbreak of the flu had seen to that, and a string of the sorts of accidents that could be avoided if only people weren't so bloody stupid -- John shook his head. That was unfair. People were just -- God.

There'd been a girl. A girl with a thousand-yard-stare and scars crisscrossing her chest; some recent, some far too old. Congenital heart defect. He'd spoken to her softly and looked straight into her eyes, as he'd learned to do. In the war.

Sherlock burst through the door, saw John and stopped. They looked at each other for a long moment, Sherlock reading all John wanted to say. He nodded, pressed his hand lightly to John's shoulder, took his violin from its stand, raised his bow.

  


### A Satisfactory Conclusion

John was happy. In the front room, the TV was burbling about DI Lestrade and his genius in solving the London Tube Murders.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was kissing him. It was _amazing._

Sherlock backed him up against the sink. Not the most romantic choice, given that there were jars of human fingers on the counter and the sink smelled strongly of bleach from -- John didn't want to know. The sink was cold against John's back, but Sherlock was warm against his front, and it was fantastic. Sherlock was good at kissing. Very good. John hadn't been kissed this thoroughly and this well since he was fifteen and cornered by what's-her-name.

Sherlock gently nipped his nose and John forgot his _own_ name.

John held fiercely to Sherlock's shoulders as Sherlock ground his hips against him. John moaned into Sherlock's chest as Sherlock bent over and bit John's neck (gently).

They came up for air and John looked into a pair of starkly inquisitive blue eyes.

His heart sank.

"What?"

"Just... don't look at me like that. Right now."

Sherlock's face softened.

"I'm not." Sherlock smiled. "See?" It was a genuine smile, a _brilliant_ smile. He kissed John again (not gently). John's heart rose. He laughed as Sherlock's fingers spread out over his chest.

Counting, John was sure, every beat.

\--End--  



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